Pressure within. Pressure to perform and do my very best. Pressure to know exactly what to do and write. Yeah, I said I wanted to write. But I’ve started nowhere. Start in the middle? At the end? Start from start? I’m so tired of this race. Ridding. Extracting; beyond. Can truth and love be transmitted? I make no sense and I’m tired of it. Spellcheck doesn’t help.
This island of empty shacks, shaking in the wind. Purged of things in vain. Waiting for inhabitants. Tomorrow is certain?
She started strong and finished late. Twisted thumb and battered pinky. Life dealt her its mightiest of bleakest moments… Young eyes peering into the distant sunrise, floating in purple hope. Barometer’s falling pressure, increases internal constrictions. The black, skyward pillars invading her lungs and her family’s name, erasing, rearranging. She walks on. Toward that haze of hope. Weaving a new name…. Everyone else was there as she arrived. The party had begun. Weak knees, bent back, she embraced her finishing line. Dancing. Temperature near perfect. Symbolism no more. Only real, real hope.
Spend less time making sense. Give not another nod to laying claim to silly notions of life. Learn, hope, love. A train, a floodline of brilliance follows.